When the Stars Laughed
by Lady Charity
Summary: America revisits the sites of Washington D.C. with a little tourist in tow, and reflects the heavy costs that history had demanded.


**I was so certain I wouldn't write any more Hetalia after 'Seven Pieces of Chalk' but…ever since this past weekend I couldn't get this idea of a story out of my head. I apologize for its lengthiness, and its slow pace, but I wrote this mostly for myself and for memory's sake, sort of an outlet. I hope you enjoy this, and sorry for an incoherent parts, because it's almost midnight here and I still have school tomorrow…Thank you for reading!**

* * *

><p>To say that today was a dull day didn't do it justice. Saying that today was an absolutely dead, eventless, lifeless, super-duper-boring, sleepy day hit the nail in the head precisely.<p>

Seriously, how many pieces of paper did Mr. President need him to proofread? He appreciated the boss's fervent desire to make sure everything was logical and fit perfectly with the Constitution, but wasn't the Supreme Court established for a reason? Nevertheless, America complied to checking through each document, bill, letter, maybe even a shopping list by now because America couldn't remember what he just read, and anything else printed on a paper for mistakes or inconsistencies.

It would have been a bit more enjoyable if Mr. President made a mistake or two every now and then, but even that wasn't the case, so really the job was just to pretend to retain information he already knew from a piece of paper, even though he and Mr. President had discussed these plans and reviewed them over and over again _before_ it was typed up on a stiff sheet of paper.

A dead, eventless, lifeless, super-duper-boring, sleepy, and quite frankly a _useless _day. For America, of course.

"Here you go, Captain," said America, tossing another paper onto Mr. President's desk. "Have any other documents for me to check through?"

"Thank you," said Mr. President, taking the paper and slipping it into a manila folder. "I'll get back to you on that one—I just want to finish up this letter to Napolitano."

"You don't have to be so formal with Italy," America assured, stretching his arms. "When you write with all your fancy words he gets scared because he thinks you're yelling at him."

Mr. President cracked a smile and shook his head, dissolving into silence as he continued typing on the keyboard. America pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to check the time on his watch. It was only ten thirty in the morning and he had already gone through perhaps seven documents and three foreign letters—one from China, another from Israel, and the last from England, the latter seriously making him want to drown England in his own marmite. Had it only been four hours since he had breakfast and a morning run with Lady President?

"Is there anything special happening today?" asked America. "You know…special ambassadors from cool countries that aren't England, or a famous person coming to serenade you for your birthday, or…"

"Not this time, Alfred," said Mr. President lightly. "A little restless today?"

"Maybe I'm just hungry," America said.

Mr. President checked through his lists of priorities on his notepad, checking several off with a green pen. America yawned and paced aimlessly around the Oval Office, trying to interest himself with the designs carved in the tables that he had already studied and solved decades ago (though he had checked them out thoroughly again when that movie several years ago claimed there was a secret panel to it, and then calling England during his two in the morning demanding that he check out the Queen's place as well—England was not exactly cooperative) as Mr. President typed rhythmically on his laptop.

"I've got a lunch meeting with the Secretary of State today," said Mr. President.

"When do we need to head off?" asked America.

"Oh, you don't have to come if you don't want to," said Mr. President. "I'm just discussing with her what I've already ran through you yesterday."

"Thank God," said America. "Because she's a real—"

Mr. President raised his eyebrows, almost amusedly.

"—charmer. A real charmer. Yeah," America said quickly, pointing a thumbs up as if to prove his sincerity. "Tell her I said hi."

"If you really want me to," Mr. President said with a chuckle.

"What would you like me to do in the meantime, then?" said America. "Run some errands? Type an email to someone?"

"No, no, that's all right," said Mr. President, checking his cell phone. "I actually think today will be a lot less busy, so you can take a day off if you'd like."

"A day off?" America said. "You don't need me to do anything else?"

"We're ahead on schedule of things, so there's nothing wrong with a bit of a break," said Mr. President. "Why don't you relax and walk around the place? See the views, just to get some fresh air? You're cooped inside quite a lot."

"What views? The National Mall?" said America. To be truthful, he hadn't deliberately toured through the tourist sites of Washington D.C. since they built the World War II memorial several years back. It wasn't that he didn't like it, he just didn't find the need to.

"Or whatever you like," said Mr. President. "You spend too much time on video games, anyway."

"Oi! Those are fun!" said America. Mr. President snickered and waved a hand.

"Well, the rest of the day is yours," said Mr. President. "Do with it whatever you find fitting."

"You mean it?" America said quickly, although his legs itched to run out of White House, throwing off the abnormally tight tie and jump over the metal fence around the lawn. "I mean, I can do whatever you need me to if you need me to, but if you don't need me to—I mean, but if you really need something done—"

"Go ahead, Alfred," said Mr. President.

"Thank you!" was just out of his mouth before Alfred raced out of the office so fast that by the time the President heard the echoes of his footsteps patter down the hall Alfred was long gone, through the front doors, past the gates, and tearing through the crowds of tourists who just witnessed their own country hurdle over the gates and into the open. The President felt a twitch on his lips as he returned to the report on the laptop, still able to hear America's whoops somewhere outside.

He was, after all, still a boy.

* * *

><p>True to Mr. President's suggestion, America found himself ambling toward the National Mall, not really paying attention to the road he walked on but the people all around him. There were all different sorts of people visiting the nation's capital, from middle school students from Iowa to families from Taiwan. Cameras were snapping from every direction, and Firecracker popsicles dyed every child's lips.<p>

But to think about seeing old memorials and statues unnerved him—just slightly. Most of the people here never lived through or seen any of what they admired here in Washington D.C., and those that did would look upon things like the Vietnam Wall or United States Marines Memorial with a sense of reflective hollowness, and they would hear the echoes of memories in their head long after they left. That was how everything was to America, the last time he came. It was like remembering a ghost movie he was afraid of before once again and feeling the same tinge inside of him, except not exactly, because there were no vengeful spirits to be afraid of here. But there were still ghosts.

He sat down at a bench, just outside of one of the metro stations that brought Marylanders to Washington D.C. The sun was friendly today and warmed the metal considerably, so Alfred sat at the very edge to keep from being seared through the pants, watching over his people like always.

There was one family that he spotted that his eyes would keep flickering toward. It was a family of an Asian background, no doubt, but most definitely the child—a young boy, perhaps eight years old, was American-born and bred, he was most sure of it. While the parents spoke in a different language to the child, the boy would promptly answer in perfect English.

The family of three was huddled near the sanctuary of tree shade, the mother at the roots of the tree with her head between her knees and the father rubbing her back soothingly. Alfred pushed himself off the bench and approached the family.

"Heya, is everything all right?" he asked.

The father looked up with surprise and offered a weak smile. "Yes…yes, we're fine. My wife is just feeling a little ill, that's all." He turned to his young son, who crouched next to his mother curiously. "We might have to go back to the hotel, kiddo. I'm sorry."

The boy nodded quietly, but America could detect the shadow of disappointment fall in his eyes.

"First time at D.C.?" he asked.

"Not for us two," said the father, referring to himself and his wife. "But for my son it is. It's our last day in Maryland and we were hoping to take him to the sites."

"Well, I can take him," America said. The offer fell from his lips so easily that he didn't even consider anything. It must sound stupid, or perhaps extremely fishy, for a complete stranger to offer to guide the couple's young child in a heavily crowded and potentially risky area, but America could see the sense of security in them that goaded them to trust him—after all, he was their home that sheltered and protected them.

But, for good measure, he dug his wallet out of the overlarge pockets of his jacket and opened it to show a badge. It was a very simple badge, but with the President's stamp and everything, because sometimes it was just too tedious to assure historians, security men, and government officials that America was indeed a credible source for information and instead gave him the image of being merely Mr. President's Right Hand Man.

"I'm an official here at the W.D.C. Alfred F. Jones at your service," said America. "Work with the White House, but I'm available to help you guys out if you need it."

"It would be too troublesome for you," the father said apologetically.

"Not at all!" said America. "Seriously, Mr. President sort of shooed me out of my work, anyway."

The boy turned to face America quickly, his eyes wide with wonder. "You work with the _President_?"

America bent down next to the boy with his trademark grin. "Sure do, little man. Ever see me in the news?"

"Now that you mention it…" said the father slowly.

"Sweetheart…" the mother murmured in her knees, beads of sweat dotting her hairline.

"Oh! Sorry!" the father said. "We better be heading back so she could get some rest…"

"You're letting me go around with him?" the boy asked incredulously.

"I'll bring him back to your hotel afterward, how about?" said America. "Washington Plaza Hotel, is it?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "How did you…?"

America saluted saucily, for how else was he supposed to answer that he could just see, just know his people, because he was them and they were him, besides silence?

"Get better soon, okay?" the boy said to his mother. His mother nodded weakly and rose on wobbly feet.

"Would you like me to get you to a hospital first?" asked America.

"It's nothing," the woman said softly.

"She's sick because I'm going to have a baby brother or sister soon," the boy said as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Oh, you little rascal!" his mother bemoaned with a laugh as her husband supported her. "Thank you so much, Mr. Jones."

"Anytime, ma'am! And congratulations," called out America to the couple as they turned to leave. When they had gone, America turned to the child eagerly.

"Well, what's your name?" he asked.

"Stephen," said the young boy, eyeing America warily.

"Stephen. Nice name. Strong and American name," America said proudly, extending a hand. Stephen took it obediently, cocking his head slightly.

"Why aren't you with the President if you work for him?" Stephen demanded.

"Because he's having a meeting and told me to take the day off," said America, rising again and brushing the grass stains off his knees. Stephen stood up as well, still scrutinizing America with those large childish eyes. "So where do you want to go? There are tons of museums—ooh, and a zoo, even—and of course, there are tons of monuments, tons and tons and…"

"You tell me," said Stephen. "I don't know anything here, but you do, don't you?"

"Too well, little man. Too well," quipped America. "No preference? You trust me to be your captain for the day?"

"The President trusts you, doesn't he?" said Stephen. America laughed and clapped a hand on Stephen's shoulders.

"That's a good point!" said America. "All right, I'll take you all the way up to the very best. Let's head off, then! We don't have all day!"

And thus it began—America and Stephen diving into every museum on the road, dodging tourist groups pouring out of sleek buses and eighth grade classes darting off right, left, centre. They ventured everywhere from art museums to historical, some more pleasing than others. Stephen kept politely interested in some of the lesser known ones ("Okay, I get that not a lot of kids your age like art museums, but _dude!_ This is Norman Rockwell we're talking about! The ultimate American artist! Haven't you seen his work before?" "Maybe in a calendar…") and the lesser informative ones ("You know, for a museum dedicated to American Indians, you'd think they'd actually try teaching you about the American Indians." "…Yeah, I didn't like that one either.")

"How'd they dedicate an _entire_ museum to flying?" Stephen commented in awe as they walked through the National Air and Space Museum. Sunlight pressed its noses against all the glass panes of the ceiling and the walls, seeping into the floors and walls and illuminating the metal plane models hanging from the ceiling.

"Well, the United States were the leaders in the discovery of flying," said America with a proud grin. "From airplanes to shooting a man into space, we were the boss of the air!"

"Didn't the Chinese make a man fly with a firecracker thousands of years ago?" asked Stephen, peering into a glass display case about Manfred von Richthofen and Snoopy.

"Yeah, well…he blew up, so I don't really think that helped humans get off the ground very much," said America with a pout.

"Isn't he German?" Stephen said, pointing to the photograph of Richthofen.

"He's still part of flying history," America said quickly. "We can't discredit that, even if he is German."

"That person's wearing the same jacket as you," said Stephen, pointing to a model of a fighter pilot. America glanced down at his own bomber jacket and to the mannequin in the glass display case and nodded feverishly.

"Same one, kid! Whaddya think, it looks snazzy on me, doesn't it?" America said, tugging at his fur collar.

"Have you ever flown a plane before?" asked Stephen.

"Once or twice," America said, shrugging. He had lost count ever since World War I, and had seen one too many of his flyboys plummet to the ground in a burning plane, some exploding in midair, some jumping out of their cockpits with a parachute and so close to safety before enemy forces strafed them until they were scraps of blood and flesh. Looking upon the planes dangling over their heads he could still feel the rush of adrenaline as wind whipped his hair and the roar of the engine flooded his chest and his first whoop of excitement when his plane left the ground, but he also remembered the flak that coated his window and made him fear for his boys' lives, and the sinking feeling when he saw fifteen planes depart the aircraft carrier, and only seven returned.

"Was it a lot of fun?" asked Stephen.

America let out a bark of laughter. "You bet so."

"My daddy's uncle was a pilot," said Stephen.

"That's cool! Did he like it?" said America.

"I don't know. I never talked to him," said Stephen. "He died in a crash."

America nodded understandingly, patting Stephen lightly on the back. It must have been tough, he thought, for the kid's grandfather or grandmother, whoever had the dead pilot of a brother. But of course, it was tough for anyone who loved someone in the military.

In the National Museum of Natural History, Stephen lost all attempts to remain completely calm and mature once he laid eyes on the dinosaur models and the large stuffed animals that loomed over them with their marble eyes. He ran through the aisles, screaming as if the dinosaurs were magicked to life and were pursuing him, ducking behind gilded trash cans and pulling America down with him.

"How is it smart to run away from the dinosaurs and end up in the place with the whales?" America hollered as Stephen darted toward the mammoth-sized whales and giant squid.

"They can't step on me!" Stephen yelled over his shoulder before dashing through the corridors. America raced after him, only just realizing what exactly he got himself into. They pattered up the marble stairs to the second floor, with tens of different doorways to choose from.

"Are we safe up here?" Stephen asked breathily, pressing himself against the wall and clinging tightly to the handrail.

"Yeah, dinosaurs can't climb stairs," America said.

He led Stephen to the hallways of ancients, where every room was dimly lit and the walls were coated with earthy tones to emphasize the archaism kept safe and sound in the glass walls. The echoes of chatter in the main hall were stifled immediately and they treaded forward with caution as if touring a mausoleum.

"We learned a lot about them in school," said Stephen in a hushed voice as they walked through the exhibits on Ancient Rome, Greece, and Egypt. "Apparently, the Egyptians, when they mummify their pharaohs, they dig the brains out of the dead bodies through the nose."

"Gross," America said, rubbing his nose.

"And with the Ancient Romans, they had these huge battle arenas where they watch people fight. They're called gladiators," said Stephen fervently.

"Sort of like boxing, maybe?" said America.

"I don't know. People die in gladiator fights," said Stephen. "Do people die in boxing?"

"They aren't supposed to," America said.

As America gazed upon the crusting artifacts kept frozen in time behind a wall of glass, he tried to remember _why_ he had them in the first place. After all, this wasn't part of his own history, and yet they were on his turf, his possession. Did England, Italy, or Greece mind that he had their parents' old relics in his museum? Could Egypt, Italy, and Greece remember their mothers and grandfathers after all these years at all? For America it was different—his surrogate parent was now that loudmouthed jerk across the ocean who committed arson every time he stepped into the kitchen. If America ever felt like it (and cursed be him if he did), he would call up England if he missed him, have a chat, and go on with life. Even for himself, the thought of the Ancient kingdoms brought upon thoughts of violence, bloodshed, and empire. But what did their children think of? A loving touch? A wise mentor? Did they miss them?

"Can we move on?" asked Stephen.

_No, _America thought. _No one can truly move on._

"Let's go," he said.

After Stephen spent about fifteen minutes in the gift shop trying to pick the prettiest of the gemstones to buy for his mother and fill in a satiny drawstring pouch, they departed for yet another tourist attraction. America practically dragged Stephen, the little boy's feet barely able to touch the ground for themselves, to one of his favorites—only because it was practically like unearthing a whole cardboard box of childhood fancies from an attic.

"I remember this!" America exclaimed at the National Museum of American History when he had spotted the faded teddy bear from across the room and dashed toward it in a split second. "I held this thing!"

"You were allowed to hold it?" Stephen said, aghast.

"Yeah! Well, this was back when it wasn't stuck behind a museum display," said America. "I remember when Teddy was hunting those bears. He was pretty lively when they brought in the baby cub. I think they made him sound a little too noble in the books, though."

"You worked for Theodore Roosevelt?" said Stephen.

"Yeah! He was a funny fellow…a little threatening, admittedly, and Philippines still doesn't like him to this day, but…well, he wasn't a bad boss," said America.

Stephen believed him as a growing child would believe a story—with genuine curiosity but seasoned with a grain of salt. But whatever he thought of America—as walking history or an insane asylum escapee—he listened to America recounted all the memories that came with the dusty artifacts ("_OH MY GOD IT'S DUMBO!_" or "You should have seen this flag flying in its heyday, you'd have thought the wind was colored red, white, and blue!"), spewing his fond memories over bits and pieces of his history.

As they approached the World War II section of the museum, he felt Stephen stop suddenly. America turned back curiously; Stephen was staring up at a sign above their heads, his thin eyebrows knitted with thought.

"When was this?" he asked.

"When was what?" asked America.

Stephen pointed up to the light blue banner that hung from the ceiling. When America read it, he felt his heart jolt slightly in his chest. He hadn't realized that they were delving into the section of the exhibit about the Japanese-American interment of World War II.

"This was a long time ago," said America. "Back in World War II. You never learned about it in school yet, did you?"

"No," said Stephen. "Why didn't we?"

"It was a pretty complicated time," said America.

Stephen continued walking straight into the exhibit. America hesitated just slightly before following him. Sometimes the hardest thing was to walk straight back into your past and remember long-ago decisions.

"Why'd they lock them all up?" asked Stephen, reading each of the historical markers carefully.

"Because we were afraid," America said.

"Of what?" said Stephen.

"War," said America. He slid his hands into his jacket pockets.

"But how come no one else?" asked Stephen.

"Because Japan bombed us," said America. "So we were just afraid of everything then."

"But the Germans and the Italians weren't locked up," said Stephen.

"No," said America. "They weren't."

He gazed into a picture of two Japanese-American children peering through a chain-link fence that wrapped around their confinement and tore right through their rights of citizenship. Just looking into their dark eyes made him think of those nights when this happened where he lied awake, his heart still pulsing with fear and indignation of his people even though he thought—perhaps it would be safer to put them away, take them farther from the _real_ Americans—but they were still his people, and still his heart even when behind bars.

"It looks like a prison," said Stephen, standing on tip-toes to study a photograph of one of the camps.

"Yeah," said America. "It wasn't very fair."

Stephen nodded, his eyes glued to the eyes of the long-ago children staring back at him with their long-gone eyes. "I'm Japanese."

America picked at the lint gathering in the corner of his pocket. "That's cool."

"I would have been locked up too, if I was there, right?" said Stephen.

"Not everyone was put into the camp," said America. "Mostly those near the Pacific Ocean."

"Oh," said Stephen. They were silent for a little while. "But then again, back then, my family was still back in Japan. So I guess at least they didn't have to get locked up, right?"

America said nothing.

"Can we get some lunch? I'm hungry," said Stephen.

"Sure. Yeah, sure thing," said America, taking Stephen's hand and leading him out of the museum. He felt the small fingers against his palm, wondering if anyone from Stephen's family was the one that strafed America's flyboys, bombed Pearl Harbor, marched his boys to death in Bataan, beheaded his imprisoned pilots and ate their liver, exploded his Marines with a grenade, or ran a bayonet through their chests when they tried to surrender. Or perhaps someone from his family was vaporized by the atomic bombs, scorched to death in seconds by the American napalm attacks, or forced to die for an emperor that would not deign to save them.

They found a local fast food stand nearby with park benches conveniently at the side a little ways off the National Park. Stephen ordered cheese fries and a hotdog while America bought three hamburgers for himself. Although three hamburgers was only about one fourth of America's stomach's carrying capacity, he didn't want to traumatize the boy with his substantial eating habits.

"What was your favorite so far?" asked America as Stephen fed a squirrel a crispy fry dripping with thick sun-yellow cheese. The squirrel greedily devoured the fry saturated in cheese, its whiskers sticky with the melted substance.

"The dinosaurs and the whales," said Stephen. "They were huge! Ginormous! Are they real?"

"At one point they were," said America, his mouth full with bread and beef. He chugged down a healthy swallow of Coca-Cola. "But yeah, they're pretty awesome."

"The teddy bear place was cool too," said Stephen. "You seem to like it a lot."

America snickered into his burger. "You know, I never actually went in there before."

"Then how did you know about everything?" Stephen demanded.

"I told you, I saw them myself! They looked a lot more awesome back then, when they were new and all, but you don't really think about it until they get immortalized in a museum."

"Then where's your favorite place around here?" said Stephen.

"Favorite place?" said America. "Well…I guess the White House, then. I mean, I practically live there."

"But where do you think best resembles America the most?" asked Stephen.

"Not sure what you mean by that," said America thoughtfully as Stephen tossed another fry to the hungry squirrel.

"Of all the places here, what represents America the most?" said Stephen.

"That's a hard question!" said America. "Considering this is the nation's capital and history all squeezed into one city."

"Maybe there's something," said Stephen, digging the glossy map out of his pants pocket and unfolding it.

"I'll have to think about it. And if we have time, I'll bring you to it," promised America.

Stephen nodded, squinting at the map, sometimes turning it sideways as if that would give him a clearer picture of where to go. America scarfed down two of his burgers in the meantime, and more than half of his large Coca-Cola.

"We're not too far from the Holocaust Museum, huh?" said Stephen.

America nodded, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Why?"

"Dad said I should go there when I'm older," Stephen noted.

"Smart man," said America.

"So you think so too?" said Stephen. "I ought to wait until I'm older?"

If it were any other situation, America would have said no, because no matter how older you are—you could be fifty years old and balding with a crick in your back every time you sit up, it would still rattle you to the core and leave you empty inside, or with a hand perpetually wringing your innards like a towel. But there was just something about kids that fed squirrels their cheese fries, that ran around a museum pretending that dinosaur fossils were chasing them, that debated with themselves for fifteen minutes trying to find the best seven gemstones they could give to their mother, that made America want to engulf them and protect them from the world, even though he knew it would not last.

It was the World War II memorial that drew Stephen first. Impressive, thought America, considering most children were more familiar with Lincoln's little abode across from the Washington Monument, having been stamped in every child's memory and in their piggy banks. But Stephen bypassed it for now and trotted toward the war memorial with America in tow. When he stepped into the pavilion surrounded by the towering arches, a chill racked his spine and he hesitated in his steps ever so slightly.

"Every state is on here!" Stephen called out, craning his neck to read all the names inscribed in the smooth stone.

"Where's your state?" America said. "Find it!"

Stephen ran the perimeter of the memorial, shading his eyes with his hand to have a better look around him. Finally, he dashed toward a certain granite pillar, nearly bowling over a couple on the way there.

"Here it is!" Stephen said, pointing above his head. "Pennsylvania, that's my state!"

"That's one of my favorite states!" America said, jogging toward him. "I remember when old Benny used to let me stay at his place. He was a fun guy to talk to; he was so smart."

"There are a lot of Bens in Pennsylvania," Stephen said, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Lots of boys from Pennsylvania fought in World War II," said America, tracing the letters with his finger. He cracked a smile as he traced the rough surface, much like how he did when he scratched desperate plans of escape in the sand at Normandy, or clung to dear life in the ashes on Iwo Jima. Just standing here, he could smell the sulfur, the blood, the rotting flesh, but when he took another breath just to make sure, all he could really smell was the water from the generous fountains behind him.

"I bet," said America, "if you ask any grandpa in Pennsylvania—or in the entire United States—they would have fought in World War II."

"Really? That many people would have fought?" Stephen said.

"A lot of people wanted to," said America. "A lot of people had to. Some even fought in the Korean War after that, and the Vietnam War after _that_."

"Three wars?" Stephen said, his jaw dropping. "How could they stand that?"

America's grin faltered slightly. "I don't really know," he said. "But they were strong people. They were a great generation."

Stephen walked slowly as if in a dream, in awe of the names of battles inscribed on the fountains and the bronze scenes of the war, like metallic photographs of a soldier's first physical examination, their exciting moment in full and flashy uniform, their friends dead and buried, and their final farewell to arms. He stopped at the still pool just across from the entrance, a wall of dull golden stars stretched behind it.

"So many," said Stephen. "How many are there?"

"Four thousand and forty-eight," America said promptly.

Stephen gave a low whistle. "Why?"

_Yes, why?_

America bent low so that he was close to the water. Many a penny glittered under the glass-like surface of the pool, much like the pins and buttons of his boys' uniforms that they never died in. No—his boys died in khaki shirts caked with blood and dirt, with a rifle in one hand and a letter back home in the other. They did not die for him. They did not die for the war, for the freedom of other countries, not even for revenge. They died for their boys on either side of them, fighting and dying with them. They died for each other.

"Each star stands for every one hundred Americans that died in the war," said America.

Stephen was quiet. He bent down next to America, his eyes still transfixed on the souls on the other side of the water, so unreachable.

"That's a lot of people," said Stephen.

America nodded.

"I wish they didn't have to die," said Stephen.

America rose and turned around toward the fountain again. He had nearly forgotten how many people there were here, how many tour groups and students and visitors streamed through the memorial and right back out again, but not without posing for a picture next to their respective state. How many didn't know that each of these stars here were for one hundred of his people, his children, that sacrificed themselves? Or was all of Washington D.C. only a stage for them, an art show to admire and hide in a scrapbook?

"That's a lot of people here," said America.

"A lot of my classmates visited here before," noted Stephen.

"Even Kilroy was here," said America.

"Who?"

"Just someone," said America. Behind him, the golden stars chuckled.

"Look at that," said Stephen, pointing to the fountain.

America obeyed. Around the perimeter of the large fountain were many signs, each reading 'Please respect the memorial. No wading. No coins.' And all around those signs, as if in an act of spite, were tourists—many of them, if not all, America's own people—wading through the water, splashing cold water into their hair to wash out the sweat from the hot summer day. Coins littered the water like pebbles in a lake, innumerable and inevitable. And all those signs could do was watch pathetically.

America clenched his teeth, shoving his fists into his jacket pocket. Just piss in the water, why don't you? Spit on a grave and dance over Arlington, while you're at it. Signs meant nothing to people sometimes—they could read words, but how could they understand them?

"It can't be helped," America said. "Sometimes people in the world just—"

It wasn't until he saw a young little figure run up to the edge of the pool did he realize that Stephen was no longer beside him. No—Stephen was that little kid crouching next to those adults letting their feet glide in the water and oh my word what was he doing—?

"Um, excuse me, Mister and ma'am," Stephen said, his voice resembling that of a pastor reassuring a frantic soul that they weren't going to Hell for stealing their sister's Lemonhead. "Could you not put your feet in the water?" He pointed to the sign right next to them. "It's not nice for the people that died in this war. Did you know that about—about four hundred thousand or so people died for this war?"

The adults, mortified and touched, withdrew their feet immediately from the water. Stephen scurried back to America, his small face solemn.

"It's okay," said Stephen. "They didn't know. They didn't mean anything bad. You don't have to be sad."

America didn't even realize what Stephen must have blatantly seen until he said those words. He opened his mouth to say something, but was speechless. Instead, he took Stephen's shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

"Do you want some ice cream?" America said softly.

Stephen would have said no, but he nodded anyway. When America led Stephen out of the World War II Memorial, he couldn't look back.

They prowled around the National Mall and preyed upon ice cream sandwiches while admiring the Lincoln Memorial and Franklin Delano Roosevelt's memorial. Like everyone else, Stephen squeezed himself in the line of statues and posed for a photograph, and only until after doing so did he ask why people were lined up.

"Did you ever study the Great Depression?" asked America. "They're in the bread line, waiting to get food."

"It was that bad, huh?" Stephen said.

America shrugged as if it didn't actually matter. "It wasn't fun, I guess you can say."

Stephen peered into the faces of the statues, forever frozen in hunger, only moments away from a warm meal for the first time in days. "They look so sad."

"They were the greatest generation for a reason," said America.

When Stephen and America departed Roosevelt and delved into the scar carved deep into American history, America could feel the old ghosts again, taking his hand and whispering to him with long forgotten voices. It had only started so small, just at his feet where everyone forgot it existed, but a name was still there, a lonely name apart from everyone else, but a name nonetheless. And then it grew, piling one upon another until it was a mountain of names, of souls and lives that were now merely memories, that reached to the sky far above his head, so much closer to heaven than he could ever be.

"I know this one," Stephen said. "The Vietnam Wall."

America didn't even respond. He watched silently as an elderly woman kneeled and placed a bouquet of yellow roses against the wall. She grazed a weathered finger across the cleanly engraved name, so small compared to the sea of souls etched on the granite, and yet it was everything to that woman.

"Cody Johnson," America whispered the name out loud. Stephen cast him a look of confusion.

"What do you mean?" asked Stephen.

"She knew Cody Johnson," he said. "I knew him too. He was the brightest kid I met over in Vietnam. He loved reading paperback novels over there, when everyone else was playing cards. But he wasn't lonely. He always talked about stories and he was so excited about them—he lived in a fairy tale, he kept saying."

America could remember that boy—that Cody Johnson—in their military base set up in Vietnam. On the company's days off he would lie in his bunk with Shakespeare in hand, pouring his heart and soul into those words. One breakfast, America remembered, Cody excitedly recounted the story of _Heart of Darkness_ to America, spinning the magical tale so vividly until they almost missed their duty. He was just a nineteen year old dreamer.

"He's been missing in action for all these years," said America. "Since 1971. We've never found him. We've never found anybody."

America turned his head and saw a man at the very corner of the memorial. He had an envelope in hand and placed it down at the base. When he straightened, he placed his palm against the name that was almost out of his reach. America could just about see the man's face in the flawless reflection of the wall. He was crying.

"Oliver Adams," murmured America. "He was a lieutenant, and the best one we could ever ask for. He was optimistic and brilliant and always supported his boys. All the boys loved him, they all looked up to him. He cared for his boys so much, he was willing to die for them." And he did.

"Did you know," America said, chuckling softly. "Did you know that he had a lucky watch? He had this watch that was so old—it was his dad's when his dad fought in World War II—and it had a tiny piece of shrapnel still lodged in the glass face. And it kept working too! It was just as hardy as he was."

Until 1972 on an early morning on May when a bullet tore straight through his heart and killed him immediately. Only then did the watch finally die as well, frozen at ten o'six in the morning when Lieutenant Adams died. America was the one that took Lieutenant Adam's dog tag and watch, and eventually returned them to his twenty-three year old wife who had just received Adam's last letter to her two days ago.

"And look at this name," America urged Stephen. "Timothy Riley. He wrote letters every day and even wrote on tree leaves when he ran out of paper, because he just couldn't stop writing to his family. His girlfriend sent him cookies once, for Christmas, and he shared them with everyone, even though they were rather banged up on the way here. And this name!—Shawn Johnson! He was a medic, and he was one smooth talker. Had a tongue as sharp as a bayonet, always teasing the other boys and cracking jokes. A little crazy, sometimes, but we all depended on him with our lives, and he didn't fail us. And Jim Wyler, he jumped on a grenade to protect the rest of his buddies. He never swore—ever! Sometimes, when the chaplain couldn't make it, he would pray for the dying himself."

As America spoke, he could see the faces of his boys through the reflection on the wall beside him. Every name reminded him of a toothy grin, laughter full of heart, a saucy wink. They were his boys that joked around with him when he visited them, that marched through rain for days and crawled on their bellies through the mud, that were accused for being baby-killers, that were held captive and tortured until they couldn't move their limbs, that razed villages and were razed themselves. They were his boys that he had led to their deaths, and they followed him. Because they were his boys. They were his boys, and now they are dead, and it was all his fault.

"They sound like good boys," said Stephen.

America swallowed. "They were good boys," said America. "But war changes everyone."

Stephen bent down near a teddy bear with an American flag sweater placed against the wall. A miniature American flag had fallen down, so Stephen gently set it upright again.

"I wish," said Stephen. "I wish that there was a memorial like this for everything in America's history. So you could keep telling me about them all. I want to know them too."

It hurt. It hurt so much, because America wished Stephen could know them. He wished Stephen could be friends with each and every one of America's children just as America had befriended them, and loved them, and would have died for them if only he was human, but instead they died for him. He wished Stephen could hear their laughter, because America was certain that it was the most beautiful sound in the universe, because nothing is as precious as laughter. It hurt that it could not be any other way, that all of them—from the days of his birth all the way to now, where his children were deep in the Middle East and so far from home—were far from his reach and he couldn't just take them into his arms and say thank you. Say I love you. Say I'm sorry. Say anything.

And now America's eyes stung and his throat clenched painfully and all he could do was smile—smile because they weren't forgotten, his children. Even so many years after, when people whose memories were still raw with pain were now fading away and no one remembered the agony anymore, his people who fought and suffered and lived and died were not forgotten. Even in a sky full of stars that counted the endless number that had lived and died for his people, to the point where no one could fathom it anymore, they were not abandoned—not lost forever, not gone.

"I miss them all so much," America croaked.

It could have all been different.

"Could you introduce them to me?" asked Stephen. "That way, one more person could remember them forever. And you won't have to be lonely anymore."

America laughed, because it was just so simple. It was too late to save them now—too late to take the bullet for them or to carry them out of harm's way—but he could save them through their stories. Their memories of their lives. For the world will always ask, "How did they die?" But that is no question to ask, for everyone dies. America wanted to tell the world how they lived.

"Let me tell you about them," said America.

And he was so certain that they were now infinite.


End file.
